Into the Forest.

The train engine can never see its own face. The knowledge weighs heavy on it, how is it to move endless carts, how is it to push forward miles and miles, if it can't recognize itself?

The train engine weeps, spits smoke and coal, and shrieks. (And yet it moves). It asks the engineer, how could you do this? It asks him, where are we going? The forest only grows as I keep going, the trees don't let me see. The branches rub against my face, face I cannot see, and they leave raindrops on my cheeks. I've used up so much coal on my crying, I don't think I'm arriving on time. I don't think I can use much more before something breaks.

The train engineer is silent. For when he looks at the train engine, he sees his own face. (And yet, he drives). He pushes the accelerator; he tries to keep a steady hand. The forest only grows darker as he looks back, the rails can only move them forward. The possibility of stepping down and walking back never crosses his mind, he would like to think he is helpless because that means he's making the right choice. After all, he's meeting people on the road. He's painting, he sometimes writes. He could get promoted soon, perhaps get the wheels fixed. He just wishes the engine would let him sleep. He just wishes all those things would be enough, that the engine, that himself, could be enough. It all feels so close. Miles away. For now, all they can see is forest.